


closing walls and ticking clocks

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Heterosexual Sex, Hook-Up, Literal Sleeping Together, Making Out, Morning After, One Night Stands, Rule 63, Sleeping Together, or it was supposed to be one, spoiler it's not a one-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: He's not happy to be at the club -- no one to dance with and no reason to celebrate or even to drink -- so as soon as he gets there, he sort of wants to leave immediately.But on the way out fate intervenes, and he finds himself steadying a girl on her feet, and she has blonde hair and violet-blue eyes and freckles, and his night is about to take a serious turn for the better.





	closing walls and ticking clocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts).



> This is explicit Promnis fic with a Rule 63’d Prompto. So if this isn’t your thing, please do be kind and move along, or click the back button, thank you.

It isn’t his night, he thinks, not when he has to scowl and produce an ID at the entrance of the club, not when Cindy and Aranea and Luna raise a cheer as soon as they’ve cleared the velvet ropes -- they slip out of his sight between one flash of sickening-bright neon and another, and now he’s alone and he feels completely out of place, and only the thought that makes him wince, of the exorbitant entrance fee he’d paid -- his contribution to Aranea’s birthday plans -- keeps him here. Keeps him from turning right on his heel and shouldering his way out the door again.

Better the stink of the city and the sultry threat of rain-clouds and fog and thunder, and the fact that he doesn’t even have an umbrella and he’s wearing a suit that won’t take too kindly to getting rained on: better all that and the dash to where he’s parked his car, than this place of strobing lights and music that he can’t even begin to try to understand. People pressing in on him from all sides, and the longing for a drink or two or ten when he knows he’s just going to have to stay sober and uncomfortable in a corner, and --

There, there, he finally spots something that looks like an escape hatch. Narrow spiral staircase set off in the corner, and getting to the foot of the staircase is a slog and a half -- tonight’s DJ, no more than a boy in a black t-shirt and glitter already clinging to the spikes of his hairstyle and the sweat running down his face, switches from one set of turntables to another and the crowd screams, cheers, gyrates -- he thinks he catches a glimpse of Aranea, or was it Luna? That they’re wearing identical hairstyles tonight, braids wound with scarlet ribbons, isn’t helping him any: there are too many other people wearing braids, all kinds of braids, and he really needs to start looking away, really needs to just get out --

_Wham_

He has no idea who says, “Fuck,” first: all he knows is the armful he’s got of the person who’s just slammed into him.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” and that’s not him, speaking. Words gone high-pitched and slurred with shock.

He turns the person around very carefully, very slowly, here where they’re caught beneath the spiraling metal frame of steps and winding banisters. 

“I really am sorry,” the person says.

The girl.

Neon-glare nearly erasing her freckles. Rainbow-glitter in the ruffled flyaways of her hair. A spotlight illuminates her and washes her face clear out of sight for a moment, and he’s left blinking spots out of his eyes, and then there are hands on his wrists and he’s being shaken, gently, strangely soothing in this place of bass-beat and screaming -- 

“Come on,” he thinks he hears her say: clomp of her steps past his, ahead of his, up and up the twist of the staircase and finally there are shadows here, finally he’s not half-blinded by the lights of this place, and that means finally he can look at her, properly.

Her eyes searching him, as well.

He can live with that.

And he’s too busy taking her in, in any case. How her smile is both sweet and gentle, and sharp and full of glittering edges. Metallic glint on her lips from some kind of copper lip-liner, stark against the dark green of her lipstick, a strangely harmonious kind of clash. Maybe it’s the freckles that he can count, scattered over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Beauty mark at her left temple, and then a line of similar dark points marching down her throat in a set of three.

“See anything you like?” Razors in her words, but not to cut, when he makes himself look her in the eyes again. 

Kohl, half-smudged, catching in the outer corners of her eyes. In the shadows here, he thinks her eyes are blue, or maybe they’re darker than that, shading towards deep purple.

Nothing about her should fall into a beautiful image. Her nose is crooked and there’s a long scar cutting down from her forehead, so her right eyebrow terminates too quickly and in a puckered stitch-mark, harshly raised. Her clothes, once he gets a look at them, are designer, but they’re also a tatterdemalion’s idea of a skirt suit, all shredded hems and torn seams and mismatched buttons. 

And everything else about her catches at him, seizes at him, like she’s shouting for his attention and his alone, in a world full of cacophonous voices. 

He wonders what she sees, with the flash-blinding lights all around.

He has no vanity and he has no illusions, and he knows he pales in comparison against -- people like Luna’s brother, like Aranea’s lover. He knows he’s got what Cindy calls “resting judgey face”. Unstyled hair that falls in a ragged line past his collar, and unfashionable eyeglasses that he can’t ever take off for fear of the world smearing and smudging into featureless grays. The suit’s the only thing he likes about himself, even when the others poke fun at his braces and sock garters -- and even then he thinks his shoulders are too broad and his hips too narrow to properly carry the whole look off.

So it’s a shock, it’s a total blow, when the girl who’d been slammed into his arms tilts her head and smiles, and says, “You didn’t answer my question -- but you’ve been looking at me and -- well I can’t stop looking at you, so, lucky me. I can stare right back. Right?”

“Um,” and Ignis hates that syllable, hates that all his words have fled him.

He’d hate the fact that he can’t look away from her, except that he can’t hate her, can’t even begin to find any sort of crack in the proud outthrust face of her, the seemingly reckless and easy way she carries herself.

Maybe if he looked closer he’d see the lines and the fractures of her.

And what would she find in him, what would he have to offer her, were she to make a closer inspection of him -- 

She is, she’s drawing closer, and he catches a glimpse of her mouth moving: the words fall softly against his mouth where she’s whispering to him, intimate shock. “Sorry I hit you. But I’m not sorry because you’re here. With me. Do you mind if I kiss you?”

“I, I don’t mind at all,” he says, maybe a little too loudly when she’s already so tantalizingly close, but that’s all right, because she beams at him -- she’s so beautiful, she’s so sweet, and the first brush of her mouth against his feels only a little odd, like there’s a thin layer of lacquer against her skin -- oh, right, her lipstick -- 

He digs blindly for the handkerchief in his pocket, and offers it to her, and his hand shakes between them.

Shake of her head, soft laugh that isn’t directed at him -- she’s laughing like she wants to let him in on a joke, on a secret, something for just the two of them -- and he’s staring as she smears her lipstick off onto her own ragged sleeve, vivid stains on the cloth and she grins at him, artless and enticing and -- and he closes the distance, helplessly, her mouth working fierce and warm against his and there’s a groan that he feels more than he hears, and he doesn’t know which one of them made that sound -- 

She’s in his arms, and she’s clinging to him almost as much as he’s hanging on to her, as desperately: the first kiss scorches his senses and the second, the third, the fourth, they fill him up with the taste and the smell and the feel of her. She smells like lavender fields -- soil and leaves and those proud flowers -- she smells like spice-smoke and scorched musk. 

And she kisses him like a prize-fight, like lightning striking down every last inch of his nerves and his skin, kiss after kiss that hurls him free of his rational thoughts and all he knows is the impact of her, sweetly immense, magnificent and breathtaking: he opens his mouth with a yearning sigh and he can’t get enough of her, can’t help but drown in her --

But he has to breathe and she has to pull away, hot spots of color in her that threaten to obscure her freckles entirely, her cheeks flaming hot even when he touches her very gently beneath her left eye. 

“What’s your name,” she says, she gasps. “What’s your name, I’m Prompto.”

“I’m Ignis,” he says.

“Hi Ignis. Kiss me again?”

Gladly, he thinks; forever, he thinks. And this time he fits himself to her: leans over a little so she doesn’t have to stand and sway on the tips of her toes. Strange that he hasn’t even considered the difference in their heights, here where he’s wearing his worn boots, here where she seems to tilt up precariously in her heels. But he wants to make it easier for her so he leans in, and she laughs out a “Thank you” between kisses, and he feels her hands clench in the lapels of his suit jacket and he wants her to do that, to keep doing that.

How long they rock together like that, kissing and kissing and lost, he doesn’t know.

He does know he’s the one who pulls away to ask, to say, “I -- Prompto. You really don’t have to say yes, but -- do you want to be, do you want to go somewhere else?”

Again she laughs to draw him closer. “I don’t care. Not really. Kissing you, it knocks me out of my head, you know, and I so don’t care where we are.”

“Neither do I,” he says, truthfully. “But at the same time, I -- I’d like to see you. I mean, properly. This is -- I’m as good as blind in this place.”

“Same.” She’s stepping even closer -- how is that possible? He’s not reaching out so far for her hip any more. “I ran into you, remember. Sorry. Again.”

He blinks, and remembers her words, and finally manages to respond: “Don’t apologize, not for that.”

“Okay, I’ll stop!” Bright laugh of hers that clashes with the low throb of the music. “But maybe I shouldn’t be sorry. Since it got me to, to kissing you.”

“Can -- would you do that again? Kiss me again?” he hears himself say, eyes riveted to her mouth, to the smeared remains of her lipstick, the last faint traces of copper trailing off toward her jawline. 

She leans away, and he almost scowls at her: but when she grins and says, “Let’s get out of here,” he thinks he all but scrambles for the spiral staircase once again.

Her hand wrapped firmly around his wrist. Swing of her shoulders as she leads him through the crowds of dancers.

Outside, he heaves in a gulp of air and immediately regrets it: regrets the lowering humidity that sits like weights in his lungs. Regrets the spitting drizzle, irregular pattering patterns already falling onto the sidewalk beyond the awning that marks the club’s front doors.

“You got a ride?” she asks.

“We’ll have to run,” he says, turning toward the better distraction of her.

And he laughs when she steps out of her shoes, and swings them from her fingers by their straps. “Ready! Tell me where to go!”

“Come on!” he says, and he lets her go but she keeps pace with him, despite the asphalt, despite the fact he has to weave a path around the potholes in the road.

He sheds his jacket the moment he gets to the car: sheds his shirt, too, leaving him in the sleeveless layer he’d been wearing beneath. Only a moment’s work to tear the fine material of his shirt and its subtle stripes into two roughly equal pieces.

“What are you doing?” she asks, shock in her face.

He ushers her into the shotgun seat. Wraps her right foot, her left foot. “Tell me if it hurts,” he says, without a trace of regret. “Or if you start feeling like something’s wrong.”

“Not, not wrong,” he hears her say, with an odd tremble in the words, and he almost misses it, circling back to the driver’s seat and starting the car. 

“Not wrong, but what did you just do?” she asks, she persists.

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you bleeding because, because we had to run.”

“I can take it,” he hears her say, “I can take it.”

“Yes. And I want to help, if it hurts.”

Silence, and he looks over at her.

Tries to smile, when he sees her lips drawn into a tight line. “Have I said something wrong?”

“No. But -- maybe let’s go,” he hears her say. “I don’t think you want to crash this car, and I _will make_ you crash this car, if I get into your lap while you’re driving.”

As much as he suddenly craves the weight and the presence of her, the smash of her kiss -- no.

So he floors the accelerator and just barely, just barely keeps to the speed limits, as he threads the narrow and intricate winding of the city streets -- he narrowly misses running a red light, two, and he’s breathless when he pulls up on a familiar sidewalk corner, when he turns to her and tries to apologize. “I didn’t even ask you if you wanted to go to yours instead.”

“I don’t even know where we are right now,” she says, and then she’s stepping out onto the sidewalk: nothing for him to do but to get out of the car and lock the doors, and he tries to smile. 

“Something wrong?” he hears her ask.

He shakes his head a little. Swinging doors ahead, the silhouette of one of the building’s other residents on the move: he nods to the lady in the black tunic and trousers. Watches her eyes glance keenly at Prompto, and then at him.

He has to put the woman out of his mind, so he opens the door instead, and his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth when he understands that he’s looking at Prompto in the context of the marble beneath her feet, sea-foam green flecked with white and gold and gray; in the context of the elegant chandelier and its crystalline drops. The red-brown of the reception desk and the walls of mailboxes with their golden keyholes. 

She’s stepping carefully to the elevator -- sweet tentative smile of her, so different from the fierce boldness he’d tasted on her in the club. “Where am I going?”

He fumbles in his pockets for his keycard, for his phone. Tilts the screen towards her so she can see that he’s sending a late message to the chat group. _I went home. Get your own rides._

And: _Do not disturb. This means you, Luna._

“They’re going to tease you, aren’t they?” Prompto asks, after he taps his keycard over the elevator’s control panel. “Like mine are going to tease me. I mean. I didn’t come to the club alone, and I told them, I warned them, I’d run off on them. I’d run, first chance I got. If my phone rings tonight I plan to ignore it.”

“That’s a good idea,” he says, even when he knows it’s a bad idea. 

He turns his phone off.

And looks back to the return of the flush in her freckled cheeks, and he reaches out to her: she leans into his touch, hot skin beneath his fingers, and the ache that’s been building in him suddenly rushes back to the front of his mind. But it’s a different kind of rush, less urgent, more needy, and before he can pull her into another kiss -- the elevator dings and they’re on his floor.

“It’s not much,” he says, hoping to warn her, and he’s used to living in these cramped confines, the makeshift partitions of low bookshelves. Kitchen and bed in opposite corners; coffee table and the futon piled onto a low couch-frame -- and she stops somewhere between his bed and the couch and turns, and in the steady light of this room he wonders if she’s changed her mind.

It is, after all, nothing at all frenetic and adrenaline-buzzed: four walls and a low ceiling, the rugs he uses to separate the single room into smaller spaces, books scattered everywhere and his coffee mugs trailing a ragged line next to the sink -- the mugs are clean but they’re not in their proper places, the same with the notebooks he’s left next to the bed, and the ones on the coffee table. 

“I live in a place like this,” he hears her say, and she’s laughing as she kneels to carefully undo the rags of his shirt from around her feet, the knots tied around her ankles. “But you seem more organized than I ever could be.”

“Thank you,” he sighs. “You used the right word. Seem. I -- ” He trails off, feels himself useless and clumsy and wavering, and goes to sit on the futon.

And -- there’s certainly more than enough space on the futon, but for some reason she goes to sit right next to him, she goes to fit herself right into his side, and he can’t help but wrap an arm around her shoulders. Her own fingertips running through her hair, dislodging bits of foil and tattered ribbon as she tucks a strand behind her ear. 

He decides to continue being honest, even as he leans into her warmth. “If you’re having second thoughts, I -- ”

Shake of her head, firm. “No. It’s not that. I just, I mean, you’re completely unexpected. This, you, this place is completely unexpected. I go out clubbing a lot, but, but, I never get picked up. And certainly not by someone like you.”

“A feature, I hope, and not a bug,” he says.

Slow sweet smile. “Something good.”

He falls gently into her kiss, this time. 

Maybe it’s the lack of the rush, maybe it’s the night-time quiet that surrounds him with her here, but he wants to take his time with this. Take his time with her, learn how she wants to be kissed, learn how she wants to be touched -- 

When he ends up flat on his own back on the futon, it’s not quite a shock, but it’s not at all expected either.

And he blinks and reaches out to the mischievous glint in her eyes, the low chuckle that lingers in the spaces between him and her. “Prompto.”

He also reaches out to the shiver that runs visibly through her shoulders where she’s leaning over him, where she’s biting her lip and he wishes that were him, sinking his teeth into the plushness of her. 

“I like that,” she murmurs, softly. “I like it when you say my name.”

He smiles, then. “Prompto.” And: “What are we doing? What do you want?”

She blurs out to him, because she’s leaning in for a soft kiss that barely catches his mouth. And another kiss, and another: and then she says, “What do you want to give me?”

She’s a sweet compulsion, he thinks, she’s a desperate need, and that’s the last coherent thought he has, because he’s arching partway off the futon and he’s finally sinking his hands into her hair, into the stray colors and the soft sweep of the strands, and she’s laughing and moaning wide-eyed into his kiss -- 

Her fingertips dance hot over his face: his cheeks and his throat and his temples. The weight of her, that magnificent warmth, as she presses in close, her chest against his and how can he be losing his mind already, how can he be unraveling already, when they’re still dressed and there are too many layers between them -- the pressure of her, the presence of her, is more than enough to knock the breath from his lungs -- 

“Touch me,” she’s hissing, suddenly, and he’s all nerves and eagerness to obey -- still kissing, he tries to feel out the shape of her on top of him: from the small of her back to the way her shoulders are bowed. The tension in the back of her neck as she nips at his mouth, the powerful grip of her hands on his arms -- oh, he wants the bruises she’ll leave on him, the marks she’ll etch into his skin -- and maybe that’s why he reaches blind and hopeful for the collar of her jacket -- he manages to get that off and now he can see her bare shoulders and bare arms, and he stops and stares and smiles.

Bright laughter of her. “Like what you see?”

In response he pulls her down by one shoulder, and traces the freckles there with his tongue, and listens keenly for the anguished moan he wrings from her -- but he stops in shock when she suddenly taps at one of the hinges of his eyeglasses.

Blink, blink. “What?”

Her hands, infinitely gentle as she pulls the frame away. “I do like the idea of you being naked, except for your specs,” she laughs softly. “But trust me, if we break this you’re going to be very mad at me in the morning.”

“I -- ” He knows he’s going to say something stupid like _I could never_ \-- but the words never come out because she kisses him again.

And he gasps out loud, breaks away and shivers, when she pulls at the hems of his undershirt, when she gets her hands on his skin -- her touch burns, in a good way, in a way that spins him free of his senses, and it’s all he can do to keep still when she strips him of his braces, too, and he’s naked from the waist up and she’s still smiling at him.

So he plucks at her neckline, and she guides his hands to the snaps; beneath she’s wearing a simple bandeau, and when she shimmies that off he freezes in place for the second time in only the last few minutes, because suddenly he’s remembering where she is.

Where she is, meaning, she’s still in his lap, and now he’s thoroughly aware of her, the heat and the weight of her over his thighs, over his groin.

And he realizes she’s been laughing at him, and he levels a half-hearted glare at her -- that doesn’t really go away, when she raises her hands in a placating gesture. “I can’t help it!” she’s saying. “I, I knew I wanted to sit right on you and, and you were so busy kissing me you forgot where I was -- ”

“You, you,” he growls, he threatens, and he cuts off her laugh, kisses her hard and frantic and he thinks he wants to drink in her smile that falls away, and the soft rising moan of her. Her fingers fluttering against his collar bones, his hands holding her firmly by the hips, grinding her down -- 

“Fuck!” 

He’s helpless when she pushes him back, rough sweep of her getting to her feet and stepping away: and he’s helpless, he’s locked in on her, when she undoes the buttons and the lacing on her skirt and she steps out of it, glimpse of ribbons decorating her panties and -- then all of that is gone from his awareness because he’s looking at the naked and glorious expanse of her, and he’s irrationally pleased to see -- not just the freckles but the entirety of her. Stretch marks silvering her stomach, and ink -- 

For a moment he can’t understand what he’s looking at, dark-blue lines in a compact image down her right thigh, sharp angles and the sharp point of a sword, but where the hilt ought to be, he instead sees something that looks very much like the barrel and the trigger and the trigger-guard for a pistol -- 

He looks up.

Shadow in her eyes that looks like nervousness.

So he says, “Wait, no, Prompto -- ” 

Draws her close and presses a kiss just next to her navel. 

“Deal-breaker, you know, other people tell me,” she says, quiet and small and that’s not a tone he’s heard from her in all these moments, in this entire night, and he wants, he wants to hold her, wants to pull her close to his heart and -- and that’s what he does, impulsively, like all of this has been an impulse.

But it’s good, having her in her bare skin as she tucks herself compactly into the circle of his arms, and he murmurs against her cheek: “I won’t tell you -- pretty little lies, or anything of the sort. I won’t try to make a fool of you and tell you that you’re nothing but perfect.” He peers at the ink on her skin once again. “I’ll tell you just what I think, if you’ll let me.”

“S-sure,” he hears her say.

“I think you’re wondrous and interesting and very, very beautiful, and -- well.” He asks, because he has to ask, because he has to know, because she’s here, because he wants to ask _her_. “May I take you to bed? Properly?”

“You’re still gonna ask?” Bright intensity of the smile that she turns on him: he’s already sitting, he thinks, and that’s the lucky thing. If he’d been standing, if he’d been caught off-guard by that smile, he knows he’d have fallen down, cut off at the knees suddenly by her.

“It’s what I do, what I would do.” He feels the heat of a blush rise in his own cheeks. “It’s just that I don’t get to do this. Not too often.”

“Hard to believe,” is Prompto’s response. But she tempers it: fingertips questing along the corners of his mouth, followed by her kiss. “But yeah.”

“Yes?” he asks.

“Yes, yes, take me to bed and -- and take your clothes off, is that a thing you can do?”

He can’t help it, then: he laughs. 

And he lifts her in his arms, and she’s a lovely weight, the muscles cording her arms, the definition of her calves, the tension falling out of her shoulders, and he lays her carefully onto his bed. The freckles and the flyaway hair and the bright eyes, the smile that lingers around her mouth: if he focuses on her, he won’t have time to feel gawky -- so he keeps his eyes on her face and finally strips off the last of his layers -- and this is his bed, this is his home, and this is his own naked skin that he’s wearily familiar with, and all of it pales in comparison next to her, the illumination of her.

Her hands reaching out for him. Alarm in her eyes as she hesitates over the too-prominent scar down his left flank. 

“It’s all right,” he says, and he takes her wrist and carefully guides her forward, bridging that space between them. “I’m all right.”

He’s expecting her to ask questions.

So it’s a surprise when she says, “You are -- really nice to look at, and really interesting, and -- ” Words trailing off into a laugh, and the movement of her, drawing closer, and -- her mouth, pressing warmth briefly against his skin.

Smile, afterwards, where he’s tingling all over from the contact, and he catches her chin in careful fingers, and kisses her -- drinks in her soft sweet sigh as he tilts backwards, as he drops back onto his own pillows and she’s stretched out full-length atop him, heat rising in tides as she rocks against him and he can’t help but be drawn into the rhythm of her, the ragged gasp of her, and there’s a part of his mind that’s demanding he take her here and now -- but he pushes those thoughts away, and simply loses himself in the sensations of Prompto.

She pulls away from his mouth: he gasps and opens his eyes to the vivid flush that almost erases her freckles. Her lips, swollen and glistening. And even when he can’t see all of the details of her, he can see her eyes and the violet-blue rims of her irises, her pupils blown wide wide wide, and he groans and yanks her down into another series of kisses, reeling from the colossal impact of her, the scorching heat she raises in him when her hands wander over his chest, down to his waist and -- 

“Fuck,” he says, and maybe he’ll complain, this time, because for some reason that he can’t actually understand, she keeps pulling away -- 

He’s left speechless when she laughs and licks her lips -- that gorgeous leer is the last thing he sees before she’s leaning over and biting a path down his throat, over the hollow between his collar bones, her teeth worrying at the same place she’d kissed him: the skin over his heart, the mad rush of his pulse, and he wants, he needs, the bruises she’ll leave on him -- 

Maybe it’s her name that falls shocked and breathless from his lips: she alternates between biting and kissing as she moves down his torso and he’s going out of his mind well before she blows a teasing puff of warm air over the head of his cock, hard and trembling against his thigh.

“Please please please,” he moans, and he has no idea what she’s going to do, no idea what she wants -- he’s gone, he’s thoroughly lost in her, even as she licks a searing line down the length of him -- 

Soft wet eager sounds of her, as she goes down on him and he keeps his hands flat to the sheets when he desperately wants to -- to pull her closer, to push her away, completely overwhelmed even as she hums around him and that’s another kind of sensation, that’s overload to his already screaming senses, pleasure flaring up in him and threatening to pull him apart -- 

“Prompto,” he manages to say, clearly.

“Mmm?” 

She’s sitting up, she’s licking her lips again -- 

Somehow he finds her hand with his.

“What do you want,” she’s saying.

“I need you right the fuck now,” he mutters and she laughs in response, and he can’t take her amiss because she’s all but scrambling to lie back on the bed.

“Have me,” she says, “have me please?”

The last thing he does is fumble in the direction of his bedside drawer: his hands are shaking so much when he opens the small foil packet, it’s a miracle he can actually put the condom on correctly -- but he manages the whole feat and now he can’t, he won’t resist: on his knees over her and he takes a rough kiss from her mouth, and drinks in the wail of her when he pulls away -- here she is, spread out for him, and he stares, caught and pinned on her, the naked need of her -- 

“Ignis, please,” she cries -- and that jolts him back into action -- her lovely mouth shaping his name -- 

One hand on her thigh and the other to guide himself in -- he sinks into her slowly and easily and she’s turning all of his thoughts inside out, slick wet heat surrounding him, and she’s laughing, dazed and delighted, and now he’s all the way in, braced over her and he can feel the tremors racing through her -- 

Her hand on his wrist, tightening, pleading: “Move, move, Ignis, move -- ”

Soft sweet cry falling from her lips as he thrusts, once, and again -- she’s moving to meet him thrust for thrust, the roll of her hips wrenching a cry from him, and it takes a moment before he can match the pace she’s setting, so lost is he in the delirious pleasure of her -- but she’s blinking up at him, wild feral grin and she’s moving, again, and now he can move with her -- slow sweet maddening rhythm -- 

She’s swearing at him, she’s calling his name, more and more breathless with every thrust and roll of their hips --

She’s pulling him down and he lets her, and he braces most of his weight on his elbow so he doesn’t crush her -- he tries to kiss her and his mouth glances against her cheek, instead, and her hands are clenching on his shoulders, blunt nails digging into his skin and he hisses her name, keeps going -- 

“Come on, harder, you’re not gonna break me -- ” 

He’s so close, so close already, overstimulated and undone and lost --

“Need you to come,” he whispers into her shoulder, “Prompto, please, I want you to come, I need you to come on me -- ”

“Fuck!” She’s guiding his free hand down to where they’re joined: his fingers and hers working even as he keeps thrusting into her, wet sounds of their bodies coming together again and again, and he’s holding his breath, he’s gritting his teeth, he’s nearly at his own limits, he’s falling apart -- 

“Ignis, Ignis, please, so close -- fuck, fuck, oh, I’m, I -- !” She cuts herself off with a strangled cry -- goes still beneath him, eyes wide open -- racked and beautiful in her climax, and he could fall, fall, fall into her, he could get completely lost in her -- 

“You, you,” she gasps beneath him. “Come on, please!”

And relief is like a hammer-blow all down his nerves, as he thrusts into her, a few more times and then he, too, is drowning in his release.

He thinks he blacks out with the intensity of it, with the impact of her; he’s not sure. All he knows is that it takes him a moment to catch his breath again -- to pull out, to pull away, and he offers her his undershirt to clean up with, and he’s decidedly unsteady when he deals with the condom and tosses it in the trash.

He retrieves his glasses, too, and when he looks back at Prompto sitting up next to his pillows he can see the tension in her, the hunch of her shoulders and the wry downturn of her mouth. 

So he sits next to her and says, “May I?”

“What?” Almost defensive. Almost braced for a blow.

He kisses her cheek. “That. And also: if you want to stay, you can.”

She blinks, blinks, and then he looks down because she’s taking his hand. “Is it really okay?”

“I’d like you to,” he says, gently. “And only if you’d like to, as well.”

“How are you even real?” 

“I would ask the same question of you,” he says, and he kisses her again, on the mouth this time: and the kiss is soft and gentle, at first -- before he’s shivering and trying to press closer again.

Laughter in her eyes when she pulls away, this time, and a sort of smirk on her clever mouth: “Or are you hoping for, for, I don’t know. You want to go again?”

“If you do,” he retorts, grinning back. 

She’s still laughing, and there’s relief in her eyes, when he pulls her close and then down to the pillows -- and then it’s his turn to laugh, because she insists on being the big spoon, and he kisses the knuckles of her hand, gently, and hopes he doesn’t have to wake up by himself.

*

It’s strange to wake up with such a weight leaning against her, warm and close, anchoring: and she opens her eyes and has to blink away stray strands of light-brown hair.

She’s too used to waking up with her own hair fallen straight into her face, and her eyes gone gritty and her throat gone dry from a hangover, or from another thankless late night.

This isn’t one of those mornings, she knows that, even before she realizes she’s naked and so is the person sleeping in her arms, the person with the light-brown hair.

Ignis, from the club: and she’s still torn between cursing the idiot who’d sent her stumbling right into Ignis, and maybe begrudgingly sending them thank-you flowers. 

Maybe she’ll do both, what’s stopping her? 

Movement, Ignis is moving in her arms, and she holds her breath and leans over at the same time, resting her forehead against the back of his neck.

She can’t stop herself from kissing him there, even as she hopes she hasn’t just woken him up.

Sigh, deep and regretful, that shakes through him: and then he’s turning around, and he’s nosing at her neck and he’s muttering something that sounds like “Five minutes.”

Something twinges in her chest, something she almost recognizes as affection: and she whispers, she repeats herself from -- earlier. “Is it really okay?”

Silence, Ignis’s deepening breaths, lulling -- 

And five minutes later he’s kissing her gently awake, and she opens her eyes and he’s all she can see, all the way to the spots in his face and the grit in the corners of his eyes, when he frowns a little and says, “What was the question?”

Blink. Blink. She remembers, and she brushes a fingertip over the lines in his forehead. “Is it really okay? Ignis.”

“Prompto. Yes.”

So she smiles, and kisses him, and pulls him close.

**Author's Note:**

> If you think this looks familiar, that's because I posted a ficlet called [bang bang](https://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/post/171285598086/apparently-its-all-nsfw-all-the-time-in-my-head) to my FFXV sideblog a couple of weeks ago.
> 
> ninemoons42 on Tumblr: [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)


End file.
